


Picnic

by LadyAJ_13



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Picnics, Pre-Avengers (2012), SHIELD, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 09:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s sunny, Clint’s hungry, and Natasha’s working undercover in a sandwich shop. That equals picnic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picnic

**Author's Note:**

> We got a glimpse of sunshine this morning, and this is where my brain goes. Enjoy and dream of summer!

For once, it’s actually a lovely day. SHIELD missions seem designed to fall upon the most unpleasant weather conditions possible: darkness, wind, rain – you name it. But today, despite the slight chill carried by the breeze, the sun is warm enough that it’s not uncomfortable to be perched high up in the branches of an old tree. It could even be called nice.

It might have been more stable on a rooftop, but this tree gives him good sightlines on both the van SHIELD are using and Natasha, currently undercover as a waitress across the street. He’s more visible than he’d like to be, but he’s dressed in civilian clothes and ready to proclaim himself a tree surgeon if anyone asks. That bow and arrow? For collecting samples when on the ground. The comm set? Well you never know when you might fall and break a leg.

 _Eyes on the target, Barton._  

Ok, unfair. He’d closed them for about a second; everyone had to blink. That was the problem with newbie handlers, though. They liked to pull you up on every little thing. Whether it was about proving they knew the rule book, establishing dominance or just giving themselves a reason to be there, it was a common issue.

“Roger that, Sir.”

He’s taking the piss, but Cooper doesn’t know him well enough to know that. If he takes the good little soldier voice at face value, that’s his problem.

“You know, once this is all over Natasha should get sandwiches and then we could go have a picnic somewhere.”

There’s a beat of silence, then: _Focus, Barton. Think about your stomach on your own time._

“Sir?”

_Concentra-_

“Not you, Cooper.” There’s movement down below and Clint stills, watching carefully. It’s just a mother reaching for a toy for her baby, not anything more sinister, so he relaxes. “How about it, Sir?”

_**You want to go on a picnic.** _

There it is; he’s been quiet as a SHIELD agent on stakeout (a SHIELD agent who isn’t Clint, at least) but a new handler will always have a more experienced senior officer with them. And with both Clint and Natasha in the field, it wasn’t likely to be anyone else watching over them.

“It’s just the day for it! We’ll wrap this up way before dark, and I can spy a patch of grass and flowers roughly ten minutes stroll due North that would be perfect.”

“As long as there are no smarmy bastards grabbing my ass or leaving me their number, count me in.” It’s quiet but venomous, spoken from behind a cloud of hair. Clint grins in Natasha’s general direction.

“Coulson and I will be nothing but gentlemen,” he promises. Her fixed waitress expression of neutral politeness doesn’t waver, but there’s an air of amusement around her anyway so he counts it as a win.

_**Fine. But perhaps finish the op before planning your social lives. I may be used to your ways, but this approach is not by the book.** _

In other words, quit talking, you’re making Cooper twitchy.

“Roger that, Sir.”

 

\--

Whether it’s the promise of eating one of those sandwiches he’s been watching all morning (Clint) or the prospect of being able to quit her job (Natasha) they get the op sewn up pretty quickly after that. Clint creates a distraction in the street by ‘accidentally’ lopping off the wrong tree bough, while Natasha hacks into the restaurant’s computer and makes copies of all the files. Ten minutes later, he’s packing up his tools while Natasha stages a screaming row with the boss and storms out; shoulder bag, hopefully, full of food.

They reconvene at the patch of grass. It’s not quite a park, but its public land and there’s enough greenery to lie out without being half on the concrete path. Natasha unearths the sandwiches, cake and drinks she liberated, handing him his favourite (cheese and ham, plenty of mustard) just as Coulson walks up.

“No Cooper?” Clint asks, around a mouthful of bread. He leans back on one arm, twisting to avoid the danger of mustard meeting t-shirt. The sun has burnt off the chill in the air now and it feels good warming his skin.

“I can’t help but think you expected that, given the lack of a fourth sandwich.” Coulson sits, and there should be something weird about an agent of his calibre (dressed in that suit) sitting on the grass eating a sandwich, but there isn’t. Maybe they’ve been working together too long, but they’ve seen each other in almost every possible state now. Most junior agents think Natasha doesn’t eat (or if she does, it’s the blood of male admirers), but both Clint and Coulson know that if they touch the smuggled slice of double chocolate gateaux they can say goodbye to their hands.

Clint shrugs. “Could’ve shared,” he mutters around another bite, in a tone designed to suggest it wouldn’t be him doing the sharing. Coulson lets it slide.

“He stayed in the van. Said he wanted to write his mission report while the memories were still fresh. Yours are due tomorrow morning, remember.” He picks at a tomato hidden among his tuna salad and drops it on the grass for any passing birds.

“Well I’m honoured you chose to dine with us instead,” replies Clint.

“Mine’s already written. I can write and talk at the same time, you know.”

Natasha digs in her bag, producing a beaten up notebook. “All mine’s in there,” she says, dropping it next to Coulson’s lap.

“You both wrote your reports on the job?”  Clint flicks through Natasha’s notebook. It really is all there. She must have been writing it instead of taking orders; good job no one ws reading over her shoulder. “Of course you did. You exist to make me look bad. Mine will be in first thing tomorrow, Sir,” he promises. “There’s just not really anything to lean on when you’re in a tree.”

“Don’t worry Clint. Someone has to make the new handler look good.” Natasha’s smiling around her turkey roll, so he takes it in the spirit it was intended and mock-glares at her.

“You both could have been more professional,” Coulson comments mildly.

“Oh come on! If he can’t cope with a bit of chatter what’s he going to do when the shit really hits the fan? Agents going rogue; friendly fire! There are worse things than lunch,” Clint finishes, seriously.

“You’re right,” Coulson concedes. “I’ll point it out to him.” It is awesome, having a handler who actually thinks you can handle yourself and trusts your opinion, Clint decides. Sometimes he forgets what it was like pre-Coulson, but then a milk-run mission like this, breaking in a new handler, brings it all back. “It does look bad when the agents appear to care more about lunch than taking down an infamous arms smuggling racket, though.”

“Are we showing you up?” Natasha’s voice is stable, quiet. It’s paired with her ‘no more joking, let’s get serious’ face. She’s relaxed her professional attitude around the two of them, and sometimes, like today, it slips out when other people are around. Maybe she’s been worrying about it.

“No,” Coulson replies, immediately. He balls up his sandwich wrapping and tucks it back into Natasha’s bag, before lying back, face up to the sun. “You’re both requested more often than any of my other agents.

“Really?” Clint knows he’s a good shot, but he’s also been written up on many occasions for insubordination. He’d never considered himself much of a catch, as agents go.

“Really. Stop fishing,” Coulson loosens his tie and closes his eyes.

“For compliments,” Clint finishes, with a glance at Natasha. She measures a ‘well, _duh’_ look at him and he grins; she’s long since understood American sayings and idioms but he prefers to keep explaining anyway.

They fall silent, relaxing under the sun’s rays and letting the mission buzz slip away. Natasha kicks off her shoes and removes the black waistcoat that was part of her waitress uniform. Her white shirt gleams in the sunlight, a mirror of Coulson’s a few feet away. Clint thinks to hell with it. He unties his trainers, removes his socks and rolls up his jeans before lying down. Sometimes being a SHIELD agent is the _best_.


End file.
